


Prerogative

by methylviolet10b



Series: Camera Obscura [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Prompt Fic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is pragmatism a prerogative of the job? Is caring? Or are they something else entirely?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prerogative

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP #19: "A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave." - Mohandas Gandhi
> 
> Warnings: This is a continuation of the chapters found in [Camera Obscura](http://archiveofourown.org/works/655090), including that eponymous chapter, Unlucky Number, Another Angle, and The Job. If you haven't read those, this might not make much sense. **And absolutely no beta.** This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.

The stench had been awful on the main floor, but the upper floors were even more pungent with the odors of mildew, decay, and human waste. Worse, the footing was unsound at best. There were weak spots, and a few places that sagged so noticeably that Sally and Constable Pierce dared not try crossing them. It left dangerous holes in their search pattern, but better that than risk one of them plunging through the rotted wood.  
  
They edged onward, sweeping their lights in a constant, erratic pattern, searching everywhere for signs of the killer – and for Sherlock Holmes, a maniac of a different sort. The unrelenting dark made it natural to want to crowd together for safety, but with a Taser-armed maniac on the loose, that was the worst thing they could do. They were already lighting themselves up like targets with their torches; no sense in giving the suspect the chance of taking them both out at once.  
  
“A herd of marauding elephants would make less noise,” a voice said suddenly from the darkness. “Is this standard procedure, or something you’ve decided to try especially for the occasion?”  
  
Sally whipped her torch around. The powerful beam illuminated Sherlock standing in a doorway, overwhelming the comparatively dim beam of the tiny penlight he carried in one hand. His pale face was startling, almost ghostly, above his dark coat. The Freak’s lips were pressed in a thin line – undoubtedly of disapproval.  
  
“Sherlock!” she gasped, unable to help herself. Her heart pounded with the surge of adrenaline. Still, she reacted better than Pierce, who actually cried out. Some might have said he shrieked like a little girl, but Sally _hated_ that girl-belittling phrase beyond words.  
  
“Yes. I take it you believed our message,” the so-called ‘consulting detective’ said, ignoring both their reactions. “How many officers did you bring? Have you found any sign of Lestrade?”  
  
Sally blinked. For a moment – just a moment – she could have sworn she heard something like _worry_ in the Freak’s voice when he named the Detective Inspector.  That surprise, combined with the sudden knowledge that for once she knew something the Freak didn’t, left her briefly tongue-tied.  
  
“Oh, we found him,” Pierce spoke up. “Him and the other victim both, and just in time, I’d say.”  
  
Sherlock froze. “Other victim?”  
  
There wasn’t a good way to say it. There never was. “Watson. We found him on the ground near where the maniac had tied up the inspector. We think he was Tasered and drugged, the same way Lestrade says he was. The object we saw in the man’s hand before he ran off certainly could have been a Taser.”  
  
Whatever Sally expected of Sherlock at hearing the news, it certainly wasn’t for the man to snarl and whip out his mobile. “John should have sent a text the moment he found Lestrade…of course, idiot, no signal! Too much interference from the walls, old construction, either the message was queued for sending or was sent and hasn’t been delivered.” He lifted his eyes and stared unblinkingly at Sally. “All right?”  
  
“What?”  
  
If anything, his lips drew back from his teeth even more. “John, _is he all right?_ ”  
  
“Emergency services should be here within minutes, if they’re not already on scene,” Pierce told the Freak in a professionally reassuring tone that Sally _knew_ was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”  
  
She held her breath, waiting for Sherlock to rip Pierce a new one.  
  
It didn’t happen. The other man stood there a moment, silent in the glare of their torches, then drew a visible breath. “Right. I’ve already searched this part of the building. He can’t have gone any higher; none of the stairs are passable beyond this floor, and the dumbwaiters only go to the first. We need to concentrate the search on the basement. I assume you have stationed people on all the exits.”  
  
The ice in his voice sent a chill up Sally’s spine. “On the door that had been boarded up, yeah, and we’ve a car watching the main doors, in case they’re not as securely boarded-up as they look. But you should go to Watson.”  
  
“Why?” Cold, so cold, that tone. “He’s receiving medical attention, or should be shortly.”  
  
“Because he’s your friend!” She hurled the words at him, fire to his frigidity.  
  
“And so I should let a serial spree killer slip away?” His pale eyes glittered in the torchlight, unearthly, but his voice remained smooth, even. “I worked it out before he could kill this time, so you’ll just assume I’ll do so with his next chosen victim? Very touching, your faith in me, but I would think that you’d show more concern for those that he could harm. Including Lestrade, should he decide to try for him again.”  
  
The radios crackled to life before she could even _begin_ to react to that. “We’ve got him! He knocked over Davis at the back door, but Porte and Stanley subdued him. He’s on his way to the van.”  
  
“Good work. I’ll meet you there.” Sally radioed the response almost by reflex, her eyes never breaking away from the duel with the Freak. “Come on.”  
  
He nodded and followed close on her heels without another word.  
  
The light and air outside was almost heavenly, despite the glare of the emergency lights and the chaos of response cars, ambulances, and personnel. As soon as they exited the building, the Freak made a beeline for the closest stretcher, where Watson was doing his half-conscious, drugged-out best to struggle with two attendants.  
  
“No!” she heard him slur, half-shouting. “Shlck – hav’ to – cn’t lev w’out – “  
  
“We still have people inside,” Lestrade chimed in, trying to calm him, although he himself clearly lacked the strength to sit up. “John, it’ll be all right, he’ll be all right, I promise I won’t – “  
  
“I’m here.” Sherlock crouched down next to John’s stretcher, pushing aside one of the attendants. His voice was so changed, it almost sounded like a different person. “I’m fine, John. You need to go to hospital.”  
  
The smaller man reached out with one hand and latched onto the lapel of Sherlock’s greatcoat. John’s eyes were black, pupils dilated so that almost no iris showed. “Sher…?”  
  
“Yes. It’s all fine.”  
  
Watson sighed as all the fight ran out of him. He slumped back on the stretcher, eyes already half-closed.  
  
“Hmph. Just as much a freak as the other one.” Anderson strolled up to her, dislike and disgust plain on his face before he turned away to look at her. “Good work, Sally. I bet you had your hands full with him in there, yeah? I wish I could have lent a hand, but I only just got here, and besides, you know they wouldn’t have let me on scene until the all-clear.”  
  
Anderson’s tone was warm, but something about them left Sally strangely cold. Perhaps it was the contrast between Anderson’s offhand non-concern and Watson’s bravery in trying to resist, trying to get back to his friend despite the complete absurdity of his being able to do anything to help. Greg, too; he’d kept trying, attempting to calm John despite being in rough shape himself. Even the Freak had said some things back there that could be called brave choices, in his cold-blooded, sociopathic way.  
  
Brave men, all expressing their concern – their caring – openly, and yet the man who told her he loved her – the man she had sex with, cheated on his wife with – had nothing to say beyond a routine pat on the back and a bitter jest about a man they both despised.  
  
She needed to think about this. She needed to think about it a lot, but later; right now she had a job to finish. “Thanks, Anderson. I’d best see about our killer. You’ll want your mask for the inside of that old hotel; it’s foul.”  
  
She walked away, not waiting for a reply. It wasn’t hard to figure out where she needed to be next; the huddle of police officers around one particular vehicle would have been enough, even without the unmistakable, _aggravating_ figure of Sherlock Holmes standing nearby, staring intently at the man in the back of the car.  
  
“See?” she couldn’t help saying as she came up alongside him. “We got him. You didn’t have to lead the way or run him down personally.” Even as she said it, she realized it wasn’t entirely true; they’d have never been here to catch him if it hadn’t been for Sherlock and John.  
  
Sherlock’s voice was back to being ice. “No, you didn’t.” He looked away from the man in the car and pinned her with a stare. “He’s the wrong man. He’s not the killer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 19, 2013


End file.
